Analyzing the skill window, I focused on the Rank: E tag. Following the logic of every RPG I had ever played, it stood to reason that skills were ranked by letters. If E was the baseline, then D, C, B, and A surely followed. There were probably even S-ranks or beyond.
I still didn’t know what the level cap was for this world, but the mere thought of it made me shiver. If a Level 3 spider could nearly disembowel a group of Level 3 goblins, what would a Level 50 monster look like? Or a Level 100? I tucked that terrifying thought away; those were questions for a future version of myself who wasn't currently living in a pile of dirt.
There was no point in obsessing over things I couldn't control. I needed to focus on my immediate objectives. First: understand the origin of these goblins. We were a weak race, there was no point in sugarcoating it. Individually, we were bottom-tier trash. To survive, I needed to balance the scales with sheer numbers. In this world, more goblins meant more power.
Once I understood where my people actually came from, I could finally plan the development of this settlement. I stood up and looked around at our "fortress", a lopsided circle of piled rocks and scavenged trash that passed for a wall. I shook my head in disappointment. We couldn't live in a damp hole in the ground forever, but I wasn't suicidal enough to move the entire tribe to the surface yet. Not without an army.
I sat back on my throne, mentally drafting a roadmap for the tribe’s future. My objectives were clear, even if the path to them was clouded in shadow. First, I had to uncover the true origin of the goblins. Once that was done, my goal was simple: gather as many runts as possible.
I needed to establish some kind of school to drill the basics into them, teaching them to be useful before they became food for a stray spider. From there, I could equip them properly and eventually establish a settlement on the surface. Perhaps along the way, the [Civilization Core] would finally provide some answers, but I couldn't count on "maybe."
My eyes scanned the cave until I found the runt who had crafted the first decent spear. I caught his gaze and signaled for him to approach.
The small creature scurried forward, his large eyes darting around nervously. "You, runt," I began, my voice echoing slightly. "I assume you don't have a name yet, do you?"
He shook his head vigorously, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of a ragged loincloth. Being called in front of the throne clearly terrified him; he looked like he expected to be eaten rather than promoted.
"Congratulations," I said, trying to soften my tone just enough to keep him from fainting. "From this day on, your name shall be Weapon Forger. You are in charge of our armory."
He froze, then looked up at me with an expression of pure disbelief. He pointed a trembling finger at his own chest, his mouth hanging open.
"Yes, you," I confirmed with a nod. "I want you to focus entirely on creating weapons for the tribe. We need more spears, and I want you to experiment with the spider legs. See if you can turn those chitinous scythes into knives."
"Thank you! Thank you, my King!" he chirped, bowing so low his forehead nearly hit the cave floor.
"For now, you’ll work alone," I added. "But as we grow, I’ll assign a team of runts to assist you. Also... see if you can create a shield for me."
The goblin tilted his head, the joy in his eyes replaced by a look of total confusion. "Shield? What is... shield, my King?"
I blinked, momentarily silenced. Right. These were creatures who had just discovered that a pointed stick was better than a fingernail. It was bold, perhaps even delusional, of me to think they understood the concept of defensive equipment.
"A wall you carry on your arm," I explained simply. I dismissed him with a wave, and he practically sprinted toward the pile of spider parts, his movements filled with a new, frantic energy. He had a purpose now, and in this world, purpose was the most valuable resource I could give them.
To kill the remaining hours, I put Brick’s team through another round of drills. I wanted them to move instinctively, turning "follow the leader" into a survival reflex. I also pulled Trashmob’s squad into the training. After a long, somewhat exhausting talk, I finally made him understand the absolute necessity of having guards on the walls at all times.
I wasn’t sure if he actually liked the idea of being more secure, or if he was just thrilled by the power to order a subordinate to stand perfectly still for hours on end. Either way, for the first time, our "fortress" actually had sentries.
Finally, checking my skill I found that the cooldown had ended. I sat on my throne, closed my eyes, and sent the mental command.
"NEURAL ARCHIVE: How are goblins born?"
[NEURAL ARCHIVE: QUERY PROCESSING...]
- Topic: Goblins
- Access Level: General Knowledge (Rank E)
[Answer]: Goblins, as members of the green-skin collective, are a fungal-based race. Upon the death and decomposition of a goblin’s physical form, specialized spores are released into the environment. In areas with high spore concentrations and specific damp conditions, these spores develop into "Goblin Shrooms."
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
After a maturation period, a small goblin will emerge. Its primary instinct is to seek out the nearest established goblin tribe. Upon birth, the runt consumes the remains of its birth-shroom as its first source of nutrients. Large-scale concentrations of these fungi are known as "Origin Caves," typically found in deep, humid cavern systems.
I sat there, completely dumbfounded. We were... plants? Or fungi, technically?
"What the hell?" I whispered to the empty air.
On one hand, it was a massive relief. The thought of goblins reproducing the "traditional" way was a mental image I was more than happy to live without. But on the other hand, this changed everything. We didn't have families; we had crop rotations.
A dozen new questions flooded my mind. If we were spores, did that mean the deaths of my warriors were actually "planting" the next generation? Could I artificially create one of these Origin Caves to guarantee a steady supply of runts? The Archive had given me the what, but not the how.
I leaned my head back against the cold stone of the throne. To get the next piece of this mystery, I’d have to wait another twenty-four hours. For a King in a hurry, this cooldown was becoming a serious bottleneck.
I pushed the ambitious idea of creating my own origin cave to the back of my mind for now. It was a maybe impossible goal, and I needed results immediately. Instead, I focused on the one that clearly already existed near our settlement. It couldn't be very far away; if it were, the runts would never survive the journey through the spider-infested dark to reach us.
I found myself smiling, a cold, ambitious smile at the corners of my mouth. If I was going to build an empire capable of controlling the world, I had to start here. These tunnels were my foundation. Before I even thought about conquering the surface, I would make this subterranean labyrinth mine.
I began a mental tally of my tribe to see how many "soldiers" I could actually field. To be honest, if I died, I didn't much care if the rest survived, but the pragmatist in me knew it was a terrible idea to leave our settlement completely undefended. I needed to find that Origin Cave, secure it, and perhaps even find others Origin Cave.
I looked toward Morkish’s small hut, watching the purple smoke curl from the entrance. Yeah, I’d definitely bring him along again. He was the only one with two brain cells to rub together, at least for now.
My resolve faltered the moment I saw Brick. He was leaning against a stone, staring blankly at the cave ceiling while the runts ran circles around him, shrieking and doing absolutely nothing productive. I approached him, my shadow falling over him. I watched the color drain from his green face the moment he realized I was standing there.
"Brick," I said, my voice dangerously low. "Do you remember your role?"
He gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "Yeah... I am the Runtmaster."
"And do you know what the job of a Runtmaster actually is?"
He shifted his weight, looking at the floor as if the answer were written in the dirt. "To... look after the runts?"
I stared at him in silence. Another one on me, I thought. Why had I chosen one of the dimmest goblins in the cave to be the educator of the next generation? Then I remembered: because I didn't have anyone else. I was working with the bottom of the barrel, and if I wanted a barrel of elites, I was going to have to build them myself.
"Your role is to teach the runts, Brick. It’s that simple," I affirmed, crossing my arms.
Brick tilted his head like a confused dog. "Teach? What can I teach them, my King?"
I let out a long, heavy sigh. It was a fair question, one that highlighted the sheer lack of culture or structure in this place. I realized then that if I wanted a Runtmaster, I would first have to teach the teacher. I would need to provide him with a curriculum, a set of skills to drill into their green heads.
"All of you! Gather here and sit in front of me!" I roared, my voice echoing off the damp cave walls.
The nine runts froze. After a moment of terrified hesitation, they scrambled to form a ragged semi-circle on the floor. It was obvious that my earlier execution of the rebellious runt had left a lasting impression; they looked at me as if I might breathe fire at any second.
"From now on, you will learn how to be useful to the Black Hand Tribe," I declared, pacing before them. I made a mental note to change the stupid name of the tribe. "Every day will begin with spear practice. You will learn to thrust and hold a line. Afterward, you will work on the settlement’s defenses and gather food. Once you reach adulthood, you will be assigned to a team. Some will forge weapons, some will build with Guardian, and others will serve in roles yet to be created."
The runts stared back at me with expressions of utter confusion. I might as well have been explaining quantum physics to a group of toddlers. I rolled my eyes and turned back to Brick.
"Brick, did you actually understand a word of that?"
He nodded vigorously, though his eyes remained wide and glassy. "Spears first, then work. Yes, my King."
"Good enough for now," I muttered. "Take the rest of the runts and go gather fleshrooms in the main cave. We still need to eat. But those two..." I pointed a finger at the largest runt and the smallest one in the pack. "They are coming with me."
I turned and walked toward the corner of the settlement where Trashmob and his "Alpha Team" were resting in the shadows. They were the closest thing I had to a professional military, though "professional" was a generous word for a bunch of green-skinned scavengers.
"Alpha Team, on your feet. We’re leaving," I commanded. "Grab your gear."
They rose instantly, their eyes gleaming with an eager, predatory light. They were bored of sitting around; they wanted to hunt. I turned to the largest runt. "You, go find Morkish. Tell him we’re heading out to find the Origin Cave."
While they prepared, I approached the Weapon Forger. I was already beginning to regret the name; it was a mouthful and lacked punch. Maybe Forgy? I thought, then winced. No, that’s even worse. I’d have to come up with something better once he actually made something impressive.
"Do you have a shield for me?" I asked, looking at his workbench, a flat stone covered in chitin scraps.
He held up a piece of the spider's carapace. He had smashed it with rocks until it was roughly circular and had lashed a short, sturdy stick to the inside with strips of spider silk and vine to serve as a handle. It was incredibly crude, barely more than a curved plate of insect armor, but it was solid. I slipped my arm through the handle. It was light and felt tough enough to deflect a stray bite or a glancing blow.
"I also made these," he said proudly, presenting three jagged knives fashioned from the sharpened tips of spider legs.
They weren't pretty, but they were better than nothing. He was clearly learning how to work with the materials at hand. I took the knives and handed them to Trashmob and his two strongest warriors. They grinned, testing the wicked points of the chitin blades.
"Good job," I said, clapping the Forger on his narrow shoulder. "Keep at it. We need more."
He beamed at the praise, looking as though he’d just been awarded a medal. He still didn't have any armor of his own, and his ribs showed through his green skin, but I hoped to change that soon. If this tribe was going to survive, everyone, not just the warriors, needed protection.
When Morkish finally appeared, we were ready. I noticed his runt assistant was missing, likely left behind to look after the Shaman’s brewing pots.
I took one last look at my party: six adult goblins, one tiny runt to serve as a guide, and a high-stakes mission to find our birthplace. I gripped my hammer and adjusted my new shield, a heavy feeling settling in my gut. We were heading into the deep dark, and I couldn't help but wonder: how many of us would actually make it back?